


Promise Me

by RandomRyu



Category: Original Work
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Mental Health Issues, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1374658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomRyu/pseuds/RandomRyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would you do if you met your ten-year old self?</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>A while ago, when I was feeling down, I wrote this to vent.</p>
<p>I meet my ten-year old self, and we exchange a few words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promise Me

What would you do if you met your ten-year old self? Face to face, looking down upon their smaller, weaker body and innocent expression, that hopeful spark still lingering in their eyes? Would you lean down and grab that child by the collar of their shirt and kick them to the ground, showering them with punches until they cried and pleaded for you to stop and leave them in alone in that quiet, pathetic voice of…yours. You see yourself bloody and bruised and sobbing. Helpless and still blind to the evils around them. Around you. Their bubble of fantasy and light not yet broken by the ugliness of this world, of humanity and the shitty truth; reality.

This child—you—have yet for reality to smack you right in the face and scream at you to wake the fuck up from your little daydream filled with fairies and rose petals, of happiness and innocence. Reality hasn’t yet broken their bubble and seeped through their protective covering. You are young, very young, and don’t have a care in the world. The worst thing that could happen to you throughout the day is that you might get a paper cut or stub your toe, write a letter wrong or spill your juice. But now that you’re older, as you are now, you are the one causing the cuts and bruises littering your once clean, once perfect skin. You willingly take a sharp object that your parents and teachers told you to be careful with, and pressing it to your skin. You’re raking it across the canvas of your arm. Your hip. Your thighs.

The razor is your paintbrush, and your skin is your expanse of canvas.

These brush strokes only leave the color red and the canvas is stained with the color. Over time, this all fades to small, barely there, though still noticeable white lines that stretch over your skin and pop out against its background.

You think of grabbing yourself and beating that little kid into a bloody, sobbing pulp.

But you don’t. Instead, they step forward.

What I see is not what you will see. What others see, you will not see.

And in front of me, I see an innocent, carefree, pastel-clothed young girl. Her light brown hair frames her face in a sort of awkward bob cut that she’s had almost all her baby to adolescent life, and there’s faint freckles showering her cheeks. A huge gap in her teeth. Big brown eyes staring up at me in confusion and maybe even fear, though they have that delighted, happy, hopeful glint still flickering in those irises, and it makes me want to sob, walk away and never turn back to her once more.

But how many times in your life do you get to see yourself, even if you’re younger and more cheerful, without looking into a mirror or seeing yourself in a photograph? Not many times. I never knew that this was even possible. I’m probably dreaming right now.

The young girl steps forward and reaches out her hand. I don’t know what to expect, and I suck in an anxious breath as if I’m waiting for her to reach out and hit me.

And her soft hand rests against my exposed forearm, running her small, nubby fingers over my skin and standing there in silence.

“You have stripes.” She suddenly speaks. Her tone is high-pitched and so damn innocent. “You’re just like a tiger, sir.”

I almost start sobbing right then and there, keeping my arm in place and letting her feel the minuscule ridges that bulge from my skin, a subtle smile gracing her features as she does so.

“I have skin like that, too.” She says. “See? On my nose? I fell down a hill. But I’m okay.” She’s still smiling.

She says,” Who hurt you? Did you fall, like me?”

I am you, I want to say. You’re going to grow up into the mess that I am in a mere six years. You’re going to realize that you’re not this little girl, you’re not what your body and everyone else tells you that you are, and you’re going to go into deep denial about who you are, into a state of utter confusion and sorrow that you’ll want to end your life and escape from all of the pain and negative thoughts taking over your mind. This will happen two times in the span of about a year, and right now, you’re still having these issues.

Run, I want to say. Run and never go back. Live in your fantasy world all that you can before the truth is broken into you and the illusion fades, leaving you delusional and scared. Keep on believing in Santa. In Jack Frost and the Easter bunny. The Tooth Fairy. Just keep on believing, keep on lying to yourself and wearing all that makeup and skirts. Don’t gaze at the boys and princes and feel jealousy and not understand. Don’t question who you are and do research on these feelings. Don’t scar your skin. Don’t ruin your body.

Just keep on living in that dream world, and never, ever leave. Promise me you won’t leave. Don’t grow up to be me. This utter mess of a teenage boy struggling to keep up with whatever life throws at him, successfully knocking him down after too much pressure and strain is put on his mind and his back. The boy who’s skin is scarred from a year and more of hurting himself; taking a razor willingly to his skin in times of stress just to watch himself bleed.

Please, please don’t become me.

Although it’s bound to happen and already has.

Please grow up to be a normal young woman and not this growing, depressed boy that alters his body so he’s happy with himself. That cringes and seethes at his birth name and whenever he reads or hears it out of another person’s mouth. Who nearly snaps at the words “she” and “her” in reference to HIM.

Whatever you do, do NOT become me.

Do not become Alan Patrick Hedge.

The chubby boy with a vagina and breasts, short and dumpy looking. Whose arms and legs are painted with scars and that glint of hope and happiness drained from his eyes; replaced with self-loathing and doubt, fear from the path ahead.

We lock eyes. The contrast from innocence against reality is almost sickening.

“Yes, I did.” I lie. Tears are welling up in my eyes and running down my cheeks. “I fell. A lot. But I’m better now.” My hand is placed on her forearm, and I choke back a sob that threatens to spill from my lips.

She has no idea who I am. But I know damn well who this child is. And I want to help them. I want to warn myself of the storm ahead. But I can’t. I just lie. Lie right in front of my own innocent face. That blindness to the ugliness and atrocities of the world and society, I don’t want to cure.

“Well, I’m glad that you’re better now. I don’t like when people are sad.” She says, and smiles up at me before standing on her toes to hug my waist.

And that’s when I start to sob, hugging her back tightly.

“Shh, it’s okay, mister. Don’t cry.” She shushes me, rubbing my back with her petite hand.

The child has no idea what’s up ahead for them. I have no idea what awaits for me ahead still.

Believe in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and Leprechauns. Believe in love, hope, happiness, and life. Believe in those warm, sunny days and comfortable picnics.

Stay in the realm of the unknown and shield yourself from the sad truth of reality.

And please, please don’t become Alan Patrick Hedge.

Please, don’t grow up to be me. I’m begging you. Save yourself all the trouble of telling everyone who you really are and shake, tremble as you tried to speak and get those words past your lips. Everyone in your family will be accepting, but even know, you—me—are still struggling with self-loathing and depression.

Looking at this little girl, hugging her tight, and seeing a total other person other than a younger me.

It’s like having a younger sister, but I lost her at the brink of puberty, when everyone started to notice the boys and the girls; question who they really are and what their point is in life.  
My parents lost a daughter in their eyes, and gained a son. And they were fine with that.

But you—me—still struggle with that fact. But every day, I take that small step forward to acceptance. It’s like heavy weights are chained to my ankles, but every day I gain strength and I’m able to take a step, and some days, I’m too exhausted to even twitch or attempt to lift my foot.

Her little hand is still rubbing my back with genuine care, periodically shushing me as I sobbed as quietly as I could into her fragile shoulder.

“What’s your name, Mister?” She suddenly asks, not pulling back from the hug.

It takes me a moment to compose myself before I can even whisper.

“Alan. My name’s Alan.” My voice is barely a whisper, but I know that she hears me.

“Alan.” She repeats, my name odd hearing it in my younger self’s voice. It almost makes me feel sick. “I like that name.”

You better like that name, I want to say.

Because you’re on your way to becoming that boy. To becoming me.

Instead of the harsh reality, the bitter truth, I say,” Thank you.”

I don’t ask her name, and she doesn't tell me. Because I already know. We already know. Just thinking of that disgusting string of letters makes me want to hurl. And I don’t know if this younger version of me can see it, the burning hatred in my eyes through a sheen of glistening tears and the puffiness of the skin surrounding my eyes thanks to these pathetic tears.

Silence overtakes us once more, and I feel as though there was nothing to be said. I feel as though this child I’m embracing is my little sister that I haven’t seen in years and years, and I’m seeing them face to face once again after not saying a word or staying in touch with them.

This embrace makes me feel ill and comforted at the same time. I still want to grab this little shit by the collar of her shirt and tell her the truth, tell her the crushing reality that everyone must face at some point in their life, even if they try to stay in their little fantasy dream world of smiles and sunshine. Of spotless skin and white teeth. Functioning social lives, families, and school life. Everything in this hazy daydream is perfect, and no one wants to die or cease existing because of their shitty life. Their fat thighs and pig belly, their unclean arms scattered with scars and a tainted mind to match.

But again, I keep my mouth shut and let the silence cover us like a thick woolen blanket.

Finally, after what feels like hours, I gather up the courage to pull back from the hug and place my hands on the little girl’s shoulders, looking her directly in the eye.

“Listen,” I sigh, observing my breath and trying not to start sobbing again. “Life is tough, and I’m not going to lie about that. Everyone goes through ups and downs and goes through problems no matter who they are. And you—you have a rough life ahead of you. But promise me, please—that you’ll stay strong.” My voice wavers and cracks, threatening to turn into a sob.

She says nothing. She just stares at me with wide, doe-like brown eyes and those same long lashes that I still possess today. Her nose curves just like mine. Instead of indents of my cheekbones, she has baby fat collected on her face, making her look like a chipmunk with her cheeks full of acorns. There’s a tint of fear in her eyes, but that determined glare still aimed right in my direction.

“I will, Alan.” Her confused, wide eyes and fearful expression turn back into a subtle, kind smile.

And I’m lying to myself. Right to my own pathetic face.

Even so, I force a smile to my lips and feign trust and how “proud” I am of this child. And she accepts this fake front, this gullible little shit.

“Good.” It almost comes out as a snarl, a threat. It has that sort of edge to it. The child—me—accepts it again.

No more needs to be said at this point.

She hugs me once more, and there’s genuine concern in the way she squeezes me slightly. Even though I still want to be blunt with her, tell her the truth—and again, I wordlessly return the embrace.  
I was the one to pull back first and take a deep breath, narrowing my eyes as I scrutinize myself shrunken down and oblivious to everything. I can feel my real emotions leaking through, anger and jealously. Other emotions that I can’t label flit around in my mind.

Suddenly, she looks puzzled and afraid.

Don’t grow up to be like me. Don’t grow up to be Alan Patrick Hedge. Please. Whatever you do. Promise me.

Stay encased in your ignorance and blindness to reality.

It’s better that way for the both of us.

For me.


End file.
